Unspeakable

by Marturano, Tony

  On the other hand....

  She loved Rupert. She loved him very much. Truth be told, she did want to move in with him because she enjoyed being with him, she adored sharing his bed and she relished waking up next to him.

  “I spend most of my time at your place anyway,” she blurted.

  He just shrugged as if to say, “Right, so what’s the problem?”

  Realising she was making his case for him, “No, what no, that isn’t what I meant.”

  He just smiled, smugly.

  She shook her head and narrowed her eyebrows.

  “You tricked me.”

  “I didn’t say a word,” he said, beaming and feigning concentration on the road ahead.

  Then, “Come on, Ash, what do you have to lose? It’s not like I’m asking you to sell up your flat or anything. Just come and spend more time with me, and if you feel, although it’s highly unlikely, that it isn’t working then you can move back to yours. I promise I won’t say a word,” he said, and then added a few seconds later, “at least not until the following week, because then…”

  “…OK.”

  “…I think I could probably make a case…”

  “Okay,” she repeated.

  “What? Did you just say okay?”

  “Yes, I did, stop pestering me.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nodded with a big smile, “Yes, seriously.”

  She added that she’d only move in if he actually managed to get them home in one piece. By that, she meant that he needed to stop looking at her and keep his eyes on the road.

  And that’s how Ashley found herself in Rupert’s penthouse first thing Monday morning.

  He had left early for the office as he had a series of meetings he needed to prepare for and, since he’d taken the weekend off, he now needed to make up the time.

  When Ashley offered to wake early so they could ride in together he insisted that she do no such thing. He liked the idea of going into work knowing she was at home, sleeping in his bed.

  That was three hours ago.

  The time was now 08:25, and she was running late. This was made worse by the fact that she had forgotten to pick up her vanity case, containing most of her beauty accessories, when they visited her apartment last night. She had left the damn thing by the front door!

  Thankfully, she had some makeup in her bag, and it was this that she was now applying in the hallway mirror, where the light was best.

  The entrance lobby was actually a spacious antechamber to the penthouse; a semi-circular room with doors leading off in various directions. The room was flooded with light thanks to a large overhead glass dome that offered a breathtaking, observatory-like view of the stars on a clear night.

  Magical.

  But on a clear night.

  Today it was just dark clouds and drumming rain.

  She finished applying her makeup, took in a deep breath and paused in contemplation.

  What have I done? I’ve actually moved in with him.

  And it was a move that made both emotional and financial sense, and it made her feel giddy inside, giddy and immensely happy.

  She watched her own smiling reflection, as if corroborating the thought she’d just had, and that’s when she noticed it, hanging on the wall behind her.

  Miriam Harrison’s painting.

  Rupert had wrapped it in the first thing he could find, a tablecloth, and had somehow managed to smuggle it out of Kenning Hall without her noticing.

  Ashley was thrilled.

  She knew how much it must have meant to him and went on to promise that it would take pride of place in her flat.

  But Rupert had a better idea.

  “Consider it a moving in present. We’ll give it pride of place in our apartment instead.”

  Then, he took her by the hand and led her to the entrance lobby, where the walls were already adorned with three other paintings, perfectly illuminated by picture lights.

  In the centre, hung a large print of Monet’s Japanese Footbridge over Water Lilies.

  He replaced the painting with his mother’s.

  Then, they both stood back to admire it.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ashley breathed.

  Rupert turned to face her and said, “You’re beautiful.”

  They kissed.

  That was last night.

  This morning, Ashley was admiring her gift, and she loved it. It held the same enchantment here in the apartment as it had the day she had first seen it at Kenning Hall.

  She traced her finger over the face of the grinning boy that was young Rupert, and lingered a moment on the hunched shoulders of his twin brother. She wondered what Ben would look like if he was still alive today. Would he have grown up as handsome as his brother?

  I suppose we’ll never know.

  That’s when she heard it. The thud was so loud, it sounded as if the front door had been kicked in.

  She whirled around to see that the door was tightly shut but that the mirror she had just been using, on the opposite side of the room, was now face down on the floor.

  “Jesus…” she breathed, holding her hand to her chest as her heart thumped furiously behind her rib cage.

  After a few seconds, she slowly and cautiously approached the stricken object, as if it might jump up and start biting her ankles.

  She looked up at the picture hook; it was still intact as was that on the back of the frame. She pulled on them both; they didn’t budge.

  Really....?

  She crouched down and slowly lifted the heavy frame. She expected to hear the sound of broken glass but was amazed to find there was no damage. The mirror wasn’t even cracked.

  She stared at her perplexed reflection as if expecting an explanation from it.

  She examined the floor; sure enough there was a small indentation in the wood.

  She cursed. Then, slowly, she picked the mirror up and attempted to rehang it, but struggled to get the picture hook to engage. As she did so, the reflection of Miriam Harrison’s painting slipped in and out of view.

  Eventually, the hook clicked in.

  She grunted with satisfaction, stepped back to make sure it was hanging straight and promptly screamed; Ben was watching her from the other side of the room.

  She spun around to find the painting as it should be; Rupert’s smiling face and Ben’s sulking stance with his back to her.

  But she could have sworn that he’d turned around, that she had seen the reflection of his steely blue eyes. They were watching, glaring at her.

  That’s impossible. It’s a painting!

  She gingerly turned and checked the painting’s reflection once more.

  Normal.

  That’s what you get for going to work without caffeine.

  She checked the painting and its reflection several more times before eventually grabbing her work satchel and hurrying out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind her.

  7 HERON HEIGHTS

  The rain fell lightly as a taxi pulled up outside the Heron Heights building.

  Rachel Harper, a twenty-six year old with a clean complexion, and mousy brown hair tied into a ponytail, reluctantly stepped out of the vehicle. She squinted up into the falling rain at the impressive ten storey apartment building.

  Built during the thirties, Heron Heights was the brainchild of a local competition winner, and it reflected the architect’s passion for the gothic.

  The building was made of black stone. Each of the ten floors was separated by broad ornate ledges and large picture windows. They ran in a symmetrical fashion until they reached the penthouse, where the ledge bore the weight of horned gargoyles dribbling rainwater onto the streets below, as if vomiting on their potential prey. Above them, two fairy tale towers erupted from the roof like phalluses towards the gloomy sky.

  Heron Heights’ dark, elaborate and ornamental design effused a medieval presence in stark contrast to the other modern buildings around it.

  However, its deca
dent appearance was exactly that. The inside of the building had been luxuriously refurbished throughout with state of the art security, a laundrette, personal gym, and a whole acre of private gardens packed with trees, flowers and a fish pond.

  Heron Heights was just a stone’s throw from fashionable West London’s Notting Hill, and that’s why the monthly rent was way beyond the means of most average folk. Indeed, the tenants of Heron Heights tended to be leading actors, foreign dignitaries or wealthy business people, looking for short-term accommodation in the heart of London.

  The taxi drove away, leaving Rachel to struggle with her handbag, a holdall and a suitcase as she made her way towards the security gate.

  She pressed the one button, labelled All Visitors Must Report to Security and peered into the CCTV camera mounted in the recess of the wall.

  A few seconds later, a tinny voice boomed out of the speaker.

  “Hello. How can I help you?”

  “Hello, yes, I’m here to see Jason Tyler. He’s expecting me,” she spoke loudly with a subtle northern accent over the drumming rain.

  “And you are?”

  “Rachel Harper.”

  There was a pause then, “I’m sorry, Mr Tyler isn’t in at the moment.”

  Rachel thought for a second. “Are you sure he isn’t here? He was supposed to meet me over an hour ago at the train station,” she said, masking her irritation. The rain, that felt more like a cold shower, had plastered her fringe to her scalp and was slowly dribbling down her neck and into her bra.

  “Sorry, Miss. His card isn’t in his apartment.”

  “Well look, has he left a message or something? He knew I was arriving today.”

  Didn’t he?

  “I am sorry, Miss. I’ve checked, there are no messages and I can’t let you in without someone’s say so.”

  Rachel sniffed. Her coat wasn’t waterproof and it was getting rain heavy. She’d been travelling since the crack of dawn, she was cold, hungry and feeling emotional.

  It was bad enough that Jason hadn’t met her at the train station as promised, but now she was stuck here, in the middle of London without a clue. She had no idea where she was or where to go until he got back.

  “Did you forget your key?”

  Rachel looked up and rainwater dribbled off her nose.

  A tall woman stood behind the gate, she was holding an enormous crimson umbrella with a white motif and the word Harrison emblazoned on it.

  “Not exactly, I just got here. My boyfriend was supposed to come and pick me up from the station but,” she shrugged, “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Why don’t you wait for him inside?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the doorman won’t let me in without somebody’s say so.”

  Ashley glanced at the suitcase and the sodden holdall. She swiped her key card; the gate clicked open, “Come in,” she said, quickly.

  Rachel’s face lit up. “Are you sure?”

  “Go wait for him in the lobby? I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  “Oh thank you so much,” Rachel said, gratefully, forcing a smile.

  A Mercedes pulled up as Ashley punched the button on the intercom. Seconds later, there was a reply, “Yes, Miss Marshall.”

  “Paul, would you be kind enough to send someone out here to help with some bags, please?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation and then, “Of course, Miss Marshall, right away.”

  “My name’s Ashley,” she said, moving in close to the girl so they could share her umbrella.

  “I’m Rachel. Thank you so much for this,” she said, lifting up her bags, as if to say my hands are full otherwise I’d shake your hand.

  Actually, given how she was feeling, she probably would have used them to hug the woman.

  Nodding at the luggage, Ashley said, “Are you moving in?”

  “Yes, with my boyfriend. Or at least, I thought I was.” Rachel laughed, nervously, as she started to wonder what exactly had happened to him.

  “Don’t worry. Men have a habit of coming back, eventually.” Ashley said, glancing behind her as a young man in a blue uniform hunched against the rain and ran towards them. “Sorry about Paul. He’s new and a bit over zealous,” she added, furtively. “Well, I’ve got to go. I’m already late for work. See you around, Rachel. Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  With that, Ashley took the keys from the car park attendant, climbed into her Mercedes, and pulled away as the young man gathered Rachel’s belongings and escorted her into the building.

  8 HARRISON PUBLISHING

  It was 09:45 when Ashley drove down Uxbridge Road, West of London City centre, where the Harrison Publishing building towered over her car with mirrored windows that reflected the rest of the city, as well as the multi-storey car park that flanked it.

  Ashley pulled up at the entrance barrier and greeted the security guard. The gate lifted and she drove up the ramp and spiralled forward in search of a parking space. She reached the fourth floor before she found one and reversed into it.

  She retrieved a bundle of manuscripts from the passenger seat. Then, as the occasional trumpet of car horns drifted up from the stream of traffic on the street below, she hurried into the neighbouring building.

  The Harrison Publishing reception lobby was well lit with terracotta marble floors and walls to match. Hanging on them were modern pastel paintings in silver frames. The front desk was made of oak and gleamed. Behind it, were two receptionists wearing headsets and seemingly talking to themselves. Behind them, a wall-size sign with gold lettering welcomed visitors to Harrison Publishing.

  Ashley smiled at the two girls and walked over to the lift which she rode to the fifth floor. There, her footsteps clicked down the corridor until she reached a door, labelled ‘Meeting Room 4’.

  She opened it to find a group of people sat behind a blue and grey table, laden with breakfast snacks and pump flasks of hot beverages.

  “Good morning, gang. Sorry I’m late,” she said, rushing into a free chair, dropping her bag and the manuscripts on the floor beside her.

  She breathed a loud sigh of relief as she gathered her thoughts. Then, noticing the look on the faces around the table, said, “Bloody hell, it may be Monday morning, but those faces are going to turn that milk sour.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t just come in with Mr Harrison,” said Sam; a petite girl in her twenties with black shoulder-length hair and tiny glasses resting on a small nose.

  She poured a cup of black coffee and slid it in front of her boss.

  “Don’t you start, Sam, I get that lecture from him all the time,” Ashley replied.

  “Well, it does make sense,” the girl added.

  Ashley pulled a face at her and then looked around the table. They were all present; Fiction Editorial. They, and a small selection of interns, were responsible for sifting through hundreds of manuscripts each week. They separated the good from the dire, the inspiring from the sleep inducing, to achieve the shortlist that would make it onto this year’s publishing list.

  “Okay, so let’s get started,” Ashley said, taking the bundle of manuscripts from the floor and unravelling them on the table in front of her.

  She picked up the first one. “I read through this, Chris. I didn’t mind it, but it didn’t exactly grab me. What did you think?” She looked across the table at a young man, who held her gaze until his lips creased into a smile.

  Ashley shook her head, knowingly, “Chris, why do I get the feeling that you were testing me? You thought the same, didn’t you?”

  “I just needed a second opinion.”

  “Well, you’ve got it. Too contrived; this bloke needs to add subtlety to his vocabulary. A lot of potential but I don’t think it’s for us. What do you say?”

  Chris shrugged his shoulders in approval.

  “Great. Do you know if he has had it independently asses
sed?”

  “I don’t think he has.”

  “Okay, suggest an editor will you.”

  “No problem.”

  “So, what else do we have?”

  “There’s Martha Blazer-Smith.” It was Sam speaking again.

  “Blazer-Smith,” Ashley mused, “Why does that sound familiar?”

  “We rejected it last week.”

  “So why…” Ashley began but stopped when she realised exactly why the manuscript had returned.

  In her opinion, Martha Blazer-Smith’s manuscript was quite simply awful. It was a poorly written sex book. It lacked any imagination or talent, should have been and was rejected upon receipt. However, Martha Blazer-Smith was a close friend of Elisabeth’s, and for some reason Rupert’s cousin thought she could simply bypass her department, the entire selection process, and force the manuscript into print. This was not going to happen, not while Ashley still worked there.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Didn’t we all agree last week that this thing wasn’t good enough to line a cat’s litter tray?”

  “We did,” it was Geoff, a thirty-year-old Cambridge grad with wiry blond hair, “but she came down personally this morning and insisted we reconsider.”

  “She asked if it was worth my job not to include it,” added Sam.

  “Really?”

  Ashley exchanged glances with Adam, who shrugged apologetically, and then there was silence in the room, as the hum of the London city drifted to them through a tiny slit in the window.

  Ashley resolved not to give way to the tide of rage that was threatening to drown her. Instead, she straightened in her chair and said, “I’m sorry she said that to you, Sam.”

  Now if you would all excuse me, I think I’m going to go hunt down the bitch and rip her head off!

  “Let’s forget her and talk about Jackie Harris. What’s the latest with legal, Sam?”

  The awkward silence continued and this was beginning to grate more than Elisabeth’s meddling.

  “Now what?” She asked, masking her irritation.

  “Well,” Sam began, “we got word this morning that legal are not going to pass it after all.”

  “What? Why?”